Zugzwang
by theangelsarecoming
Summary: Reid feels lost and empty. These are his thoughts after he suffers his tremendous loss, and as he begins to recover from it. Spoilers for Zugzwang (8x12) and Magnum Opus (8x13).
1. Chapter 1

_AN: Spoilers for Zugzwang (8x12). I don't own Criminal Minds._

* * *

I can feel my composure slipping away from me as I stare at her, crumpled on the floor with a halo of crimson blood around her head. I collapse next to her and sob as I hold her hand. I lean over and kiss her forehead, wrapping myself around her as if I cannot bear to let go. I cannot bear to let go.

_I love you._

It is Hotch who finally drags me away from her body.

I can feel the rest of the team watching me go, and I think that it's JJ who lays a gentle hand on my shoulder as we pass her. The team has never seen me like this before. Even after Tobias Hankle, I had a shred of dignity and fighting spirit left. It occurs to me that the last time I had allowed myself to fully break down and lose control was after the horrible incident with Harper Hillman and the football team. Another incident with a blindfold, the corner of my mind noted.

Maeve had promised to give me some positive experiences to tie to a blinfold when we finally met, but now that would never happen.

My eyes have lost the ability to see clearly, my vision smeared with tears. I cannot stop crying. Sobbing. My breath is rapid and uneven, and of this I am aware as I am ushered out of the room. I feel myself leaning heavily on Hotch as I am guided outside. There's a pain radiating from my left arm, where the bullet hit me. I cannot understand why I need to be treated for it though, as the pain in my heart from the loss of her is far greater than any pain I feel anywhere else. I have lost the ability to comprehend anything. Nothing makes sense anymore.

I feel a headache start to pound at my skull and worm itself into my brain. I touch my head lightly with the tips of my fingers on my right hand. I blink, startled. I had not had a headache since the first call from Maeve. She had been my salvation, in a sense.

Maeve Donovan. The love of my life, if only for two thousand, four hundred and twelve hours. (About eight million, six hundred, eighty three thousand and two hundred seconds. One hundred, forty four thousand, seven hundred and twenty minutes. Fourteen and a third weeks. Three and a third months.) No, that was inaccurate. I may have spoken with her for only a hundred and a half days, but she had been on my mind for much longer. I had spent every single second of every week looking forward to the next phone call, the next time I could hear her sweet voice.

Whatever way I looked at it, my time with her had been too short.

There's a hand on my shoulder, and I wake briefly from my reverie to be ushered into an ambulance by a paramedic that looks like rather like Maeve. Or at least, he looks like Maeve until I blink rapidly to unsuccessfully clear my vision. In fact, everyone looks like Maeve. _Maeve, Maeve, Maeve._

What I wouldn't give for her to be alive and safe right now.

I gather enough sense to try and say 'no narcotics' out of habit, as I always do when headed to hospitals, but it comes out of my mouth like a whimper. Hotch seems to understand though, and translates this to the paramedic (who no longer looks like her). I'm grateful for this, as I'm tempted to accept the drugs, just this once. Something to distract me from my misery.

Hotch sits across from me during the ride there, and stares at me with concerned, brooding eyes as the paramedics flutter around me, trying their best to alleviate my pain. As they do this, I know that they cannot heal me. Not really.

I've stopped crying, but my breath is far from steady. In place of the heart-wrenching and shock grief I had felt earlier, I feel empty, like a void, as if a part of me died with her. Perhaps this is true.

Maeve had once told me, when I was talking to her after a really brutal case that had gotten to me on a personal level, that I needed to learn to distance myself from the victims. This, she said, was the only way I would survive. I had disagreed at that time, telling her that that was empathy and it was an asset to have.

There was no way I could distance myself from Maeve. And even if there were, I wouldn't. She was the best part of my life.

And now she was gone.

Morgan had been wrong. Two thousand, four hundred and twelve hours was all I had gotten to spend with her. To make matters worse, the last words I had said directly to her were that I did not love her. Nothing could be further from the truth, and, thankfully, I think she knew that.

The ambulance stops and I am guided off the vehicle. The emergency room is too bright, and I stumble on my feet. Hotch and some paramedics hold me upright, though. I'm glad Hotch is here with me. He probably understands how I feel right now. As I'm taken into a private room, I barely notice the stares of those waiting in the emergency room. I probably look like a mess right now.

I _am_ a mess right now.

Some doctor working in the emergency room is examining me. Firm hands caress my wound and assess the damage and meaningless chatter fills my ears as they discuss my condition. I know that they cannot see the real damage, the one done to my emotions. The doctors seem to sure of themselves. I envy them as I, unlike them, have no idea what I'm doing anymore.

Hotch signs some papers on my behalf and I'm taken to be prepared for the surgery to remove the bullet from my left arm. Honestly, I can't wait for them to put me to sleep so that they can work on me. I need a break from this world. A world without one Maeve Donovan.

For the first time in my life, I long for darkness.

* * *

_"Love is our true destiny. We do not find the meaning of life by ourselves alone. We find it with another." - Thomas Merton_


	2. Chapter 2

_AN: Spoilers for Zugzwang (8x12) and Magnum Opus (8x13). Je ne possède pas Criminal Minds._

* * *

Everything reminds me of _her_.

My apartment, once a haven for me, makes me feel trapped. Along the perimeters are numerous bookshelves filled with my prized collection. But even this cannot soothe me. The books too, remind me of her. Grief consumes me, and before I realise what I am doing, my healing shoulder is aching again.

The books are strewn across the floor. I bend over to pick them up, only to find that I don't have the energy to do so. I'm empty. A void, vacant of any hope or joy that had been slowly building up during my short two thousand, four hundred and twelve hours that I spent talking to _her_.

Garcia had printed out a picture for me of _her, _and had even put it in a large, sturdy frame for me. I thanked her for the gesture, but had left the picture in my satchel, untouched. It seemed wrong for me to have a framed picture of _her_ displayed in my apartment, a place that she had never been to. Besides, I had only known her face for several minutes before...

Before she...

It's been two weeks, and I have not left my apartment since then. My teammates, concerned, have come by nearly daily to check on me and assure me that I'm not alone, but I never let them in. I'm not ready for them to see me like this, and honestly, they remind me of _her _too. They were there.

My mind takes me back to that dreadful night, when _she_ was taken from me. The bitter cold of the warehouse, the darkness of the blindfold, the sinking feeling as Diane raised the gun to their heads...

Shuffles beyond my front door save me from my thoughts. I navigate through the sea of books and sit down, leaning on the door as I listen. It's Garcia. I can tell by the muffled clicks of her heels, and the dull thuds as two gift baskets are deposited outside. She leaves, but soon returns with two others. My eyes wander to the gift baskets she had brought last week, sitting by the sofa (now with a book of Edgar Allan Poe's poems smothering the card she had included).

JJ is here. I can tell by her heels as she walks up the stairs, which, strangely, sound different from Garcia's. I briefly recall my conversation with Morgan a long time ago, when we discussed women's shoes. I wonder if _she _ever wore high heels.

There was so much I didn't know about _her_.

There is more shuffling outside, and then I hear JJ and Garcia chatting. One of them knocks, and they voice their concern for me through the door, as they and the rest of the team have been since _the night_.

I never answer.

Eventually, they give up and Garcia begs me to knock twice if I'm concious. Eager to be left alone, I slowly lift my hand and tap the door.

_One, two._

Simple as that.

Yet nothing is simple any more. Everything confuses me, everything pains me, everything makes me think of _her._

More mumbles and a loud "we're all there for him, no matter what" from JJ, and then they're off. I get up and walk to my sofa, suddenly exhausted. As I sit down, my eyes wander to the coffee table, where I had placed _her _gift to me. I pick it up and run my hand along the spine. Then I clutch it to my chest and curl up on the sofa. Whispers of her soft, smooth voice echo in my head, and I am unable to function anymore.

There's a certain emptiness in my chest, threatening to destroy me.

All of a sudden, I know what would fill the emptiness, if only for just a while. I had not thought about it since Prentiss left, but I now knew exactly what to do.

A moment of clarity breaks through my dark thoughts. What am I thinking? No, that's not the answer. That's never the answer.

But I'm already in the kitchen, the locked box where it had been contained on the floor and the syringe in my hand. I insert the needle into the syringe, my fingers moving against my will. I hear my phone ringing in the living room, and I pause as I listen, each ring chilling me to the bone. The answering machine clicks on and I hear Garcia's voice begging me to be okay. When it clicks off, I lower the syringe from where I had positioned it at the crook of my arm.

Before I have time to think, I squirt the content into the sink. The last drops pool at the tip of the needle, which I snap and quickly discard. I gather myself and walk to my bathroom, where I strip from my robe and begin to shower and wash my hair.

_She_ wouldn't have wanted me to grieve her death.

I pause to correct myself.

_Maeve _wouldn't have wanted me to grieve her death.

This realisation lights a spark that fills the emptiness in my chest, and I feel refreshed. This doesn't last, though, and when my shower is done I change back into my robe, the brief burst of energy gone.

As I make my way back to the living room, I hear the phone ring again. I wait, and then the answering machine clicks on again. This time, it's Morgan.

"Reid? Spencer, I know you're there."

I hold my breath.

"Alright kid. Up to you, but we're here for you, you know...anyway, we got a case. Contact Garcia if you need anything. Bye."

The machine clicks off and I move to the telephone, pressing a few buttons to clear the messages. Then, I curl up on the sofa and finger Maeve's book again.

I'll get back on my feet eventually.

Just not today.

* * *

_I'll update as soon as I can! I'm moving to a boarding school overseas tomorrow, so my life right now is pretty hectic, but I'm going to continue to follow the episodes for a while anyway! :)_


	3. Chapter 3

_AN: Spoilers for Zugzwang (8x12) and Magnum Opus (8x13). Én nem a saját Criminal Minds._

* * *

The phone rings, and Morgan's voice awakens me.

I rub the sleep out of my eyes as I listen.

"Hey Reid, it's Derek. Listen, I got a work question for you." I sit up a bit straighter listening. "The unsub is exsanguinating his victims and removing their eyelids anti-mortem. Does that mean anything to you? Call me back." My heart leaps and races, as it has done whenever I have a new idea. It's been such a long time since I had been in contact with the team, and even longer since I had been of use. Even during Maeve's case, I had been more of a hinderence than a help.

My fingers fumble in the dim light as I dial Morgan's mobile number as quickly as I can. He answers on the second ring.

"'Sup Reid?"

"Have the cornea or pupils been harmed in any way?" I ask, needing to know more before I told him what I suspect.

"No, Blake said it looked like a very sharp instrument had been used."

"If he's taking care not to damage the eyes, then line sight is probably what's important to him."

"So this guy wants them so see what he's doing." I nod even though Morgan can't see me, and hear him walk a few steps before pausing.

"Hey Reid, how are you?" Suddenly, reality comes crashing down on me and the drowning feeling is back. I had forgotten. Maeve. I don't feel like talking anymore.

"I've got to go." I place the phone back gingerly and turn around.

I sit down on my couch and put my head in my heads, as I have done many times before, especially since Maeve's death. Unlike the last few times, though, I feel restless. Morgan's call has ignited a spark in me, filling the hole that Maeve had left behind with a familiar curiousity. I sit for a while, pondering what to do. I didn't exactly feel like joining the team, but I did want to help. An idea strikes me, and I dial Garcia's number. Clearly expecting someone else, she answers.

"No, Hotch, obviously I haven't found the answer to the universe yet. You just called! Sheesh." I suppress a grin and interrupt her.

"No, Garcia it's me. Could you fax the team's current case file to me? I'd like to help." I sense that she's about to say something else, but I really don't feel like talking.

"Thank you, bye." I hang up abruptly and pace around the room. In what I had planned to be my office, I hear the fax machine come to life. I pick up the sheets of paper, still warm, and read through them as quickly as I can. I grab them, shuffle them around and begin to pin them to the wall. I locate my old tourist map of San Fransisco and put that up there.

Ideas race through my mind, and I begin to make notes on the papers, my hand flying yet still not keeping up with my brain. And in the first time in days, I am content.

As my hand drags to a stop, another brainwave hits me. If it is really about the art, then it's clear that the disposal sites are scattered around the mission district. I grab my telephone and dial Morgan's number, phone rested on my shoulder. He answers, and I relay my discovery.

He patches in Garcia, and I advise her to pull a list of all the art galleries in San Francisco She asks me how I am, as I'm making my way to the couch, and suddenly I know the answer. Better. Definitely better. Not ready to face the world at large, but better. I thank her for the gift baskets, and I start to tell her about how nuts have serotonin, because she's obviously done her research.

I hear her typing away on her keyboard, and a grin spreads slowly across my face. She's telling me that she's found lots of museums, and I tell her to focus on the mission district.

I have a lot of preparation to do.

* * *

"_Sometimes the hardest part isn't letting go but rather_ learning to start over." - Nicole Sobon.


	4. Chapter 4

_AN: Spoilers for Zugzwang (8x12) and Magnum Opus (8x13). Nie jestem właścicielem Criminal Minds._

* * *

"Are you sure you wouldn't like any coffee, Mr Reid." I shake my head at the flight attendant, not bothering to correct her. She continues down the aisle, and I place an arm across my stomach, feeling a bit ill. Unlike the coffee on the team's jet, coffee on commercial flights always smelled and tasted a bit odd to me.

Not helping my stomach much, the seats on commercial flights were impossibly small, and it was difficult to get my long legs in a comfortable position without bumping into and annoying the passengers seated beside me. On my left was a man about my age, maybe a bit younger, and on my right was an old woman who had been soundly asleep (at times, on my shoulder) the entire duration of the flight from Quantico to San Francisco.

As the pilot announces that we'll be landing soon and a minor delay, the man beside me decides to start a conversation. He asks me if it's my first time in San Fransisco, which I reply no to. We've had cases there before, after all. He tells me that he's there to surprise his girlfriend, and my heart drops. I miss Maeve. I look away as chatters on about flowers and chocolate orders, unwilling to submit myself to that torture. I can't wait until the flight ends.

Finally, it does, and I wish him the best. I catch a taxi to the police station where Garcia told me that the team has set up base. I look out the window the entire ride. Ideas are running through my head the entire time, and I wonder how the team will react to my presence.

I reach the station and pass the taxi driver some cash, waving at him as I get out to tell him to keep the change. I'm not sure how I should apporach the team, since they had no idea that I was coming. On hindsight, I should have told Hotch, but obviously it's too late for that now.

I enter, and hear Blake commenting that one could easily buy a centrifuge for a hundred bucks or so. Hotch wonders why, and I know the answer. I approach them and answer.

"It's a habit."

JJ is the first to respond. She comes at me like she has many times before, whenever I needed some comfort. Spence, she calls me. It's been such a long time since I've seen the team. They don't look much different, but I know that I do. I'd forgotten to shave in my hurry, and I'm certain I still have that vague sort of sad aura surrounding me, as I had seen in the mirror before I booked the flight.

They're all wearing black, I notice. How lovely of them.

"I didn't expect you back this soon," Hotch says, tentatively. "Sure you're ready?"

I'm not, but I've got to try.

"No, but I think I've figured something out." I glance over at Morgan. He's smiling a bit, and I know that he thinks that he's the one who brought me back. That's partly true. He made me realise that the only way I can heal is if I forget, even momentarily. Work helps me do that.

"He's a hemophiliac."

Rossia agrees with me, and Blake adds on. I add on. Morgan calls Garcia. She's happy to hear from me, and a bit surprised that I went to the station without calling her first, as I had promised when I had asked her to help me book the ticket to San Fransisco. Nonetheless, she's happy enough. She searches to find the people in San Francisco with Type B Christmas disease.

We work on narrowing down the list, and as I listen, I realise just how much I've missed this.

The unsub is Bryan Hughes, and AB+ hemophiliac janitor. Hotch sends the team away to make the arrest, and Blake gets up to come towards me.

"I'm okay." I say, before she can ask. I'm really not, but I'm getting there.

"I know. But it's good to see you." I can't help but notice that her hair is a bit like Maeve's.

Hotch approaches and tells me that I don't need to be here if I don't want to, and that the healing will need time. How much time, I can't help but ask. Hard to say, he replies.

He knows that the wounds will never fully heal. He knows.

"We're all here for you." I give him a small smile and the team leaves.

Not 3 minutes after they leave, a young man bursts into the station. I listen at the door as he talks frantically to a police chief, telling him how his boss went missing. A Madison Riley. Hughes left a painting of his on the wall. Definitely our unsub.

_Maeve._

I call Morgan.

_Maeve._

I tell him the news, and my theory that Bryan Hughes, like Maeve's stalker may commit suicide.

_Maeve._

I can hear Morgan pause as I tell him, then he affirms my theory and goes on like nothing happened.

_Maeve._

I put my head down on the table, hoping that Hughes, unlike Maeve's stalker, wouldn't take anyoneI cared for down with him.

_Maeve._

_Maeve._

_Maeve._

_I miss her._

My phone rings, and I scramble to pick it up. It's JJ, telling me that everyone's alright. The case it over.

On the plane back, JJ engages me in light conversation. The chairs on the private jet are much bigger and more comfortable, and the coffee is amazing again. I apologise to them for being such a downer lately, and they're quick to assure me that it's understandable.

I ask them for help to clean up my apartment. I had left it in a mess, books strewn on the floor.

I was actually asking them to help me pick up the peices of my heart.

_Maeve._

They help me clean up, placing the books in alphabetical order, taking down the case file from the wall. Garcia opens the window, and then I'm left alone.

I take the Narrative of John Smith from my bag and run my hand along it once again. I read the quote, and run my hand over that, too.

I close it with a sense of finality, and slip that, too, into place.

_Maeve_.

Maeve.

I love you.


End file.
